Arthur Morgan Journal Drawings Novels & Stories

"Come on, beg for it." Arthur did not, he would rather drink a dog pee. Begging wouldn't change anything, and he wouldn't indulge these demented women's dark fantasies. "Alright then." Morgana turned her head, addressing her servant. "Dora, prepare the spiked whips and fire them up. Let us begin." <><><><>

"Contact the heads of those companies. Ask them to start pressuring Morgan." Arthur immediately understood. With a nod, he headed off to carry out the order. Morgan assumed those companies didn't know he had little real connection with Jayson. In reality, they relied on Jayson too. He was the one who had approved lending Morgan the money in the first place. Morgan had overestimated his importance. Once Arthur left, Jayson broke the memory card in half and tossed it into the trash.

At some point Vera said, "There is something I want to give you." She went to the desk and opened the bottom drawer and produced a small box. Metal. Old. The kind that had been kept somewhere careful for a long time. She set it on the table. "Arthur's," she said. "He kept it his whole life. Inside it is every piece of correspondence he had from Margaret. Every letter she sent from the mountain. Every card and note and postcard going back to when they were children." She looked at me. "He would have wanted you to have it. He spent his whole life wishing he had done something with what he knew and he did not know how. He would have wanted it to go to the person who finally did something."

"The Audit is public. The people have their signatures back." ​"The people have paper, Aara," Arthur said, finally turning to face us. He looked older, his eyes sunken but burning with a frantic, messianic light. "Paper rots. Paper burns. Paper is a temporary comfort for a temporary species. I am building a Permanent Narrative."

Catherine's voice crackled over the phone. “Ms. Hayes.” Sebastian responded. Catherine cleared her throat and continued. “As per your request, I continued picking at the mysterious disappearance of Jake Morgan. Initially, all my findings led to dead ends, however I managed to stumble upon a newspaper article which was archived at the National Art Library. It was a miracle that I stumbled upon this article because it was already in its final stages of disintegration; and the library attendants didn't deem it important to preserve this article. Anyways, I was able to take a picture of the article. I've sent it to your phone now. Have a goodnight.” She concluded and ended the call.

He spoke little, but watched everything—Carolina felt the gaze crawl her nape, even when he pretended to nap through council meetings. Morgan visited daily, arms full of drawings and mysteries. She reported that Finch had no scars—“Not one!”—and would not eat anything blue. Finch countered by hiding Morgan’s prized whistle in the heating vent, then miming innocent curiosity when she stomped after it. For weeks, it went on: a cold war of childhood, but less weapons than wary attachment.

She was frowning in concentration, her tongue caught between her teeth. Behind her, pinned to the wall, was a drawing of a leaf. A green curve with veins scratched deep into the paper. "Exhibit A," Arthur Vance said. His voice was calm, guiding the jury through the timeline like a curator in a museum. "Dated May 14, 2018. The artist is four years old." The jury looked. Aurora watched them looking. A woman in the back row smiled. A man in the front row adjusted his glasses. Vance clicked the remote.

"The new medication affects your bone marrow. He wants to catch any drop before it causes a fever." Evelyn sighed, setting the spoon back into the bowl. She looked at her large canvas standing on the easel. It remained exactly as it had been two days ago—the rough charcoal sketch of the oak trees, with only a few faint streaks of cobalt blue highlighting the bark. "My hands feel heavy today, Arthur. Not numb, just... like they’re filled with sand." Arthur stood up and walked over to the easel. He looked at the stark white spaces between the charcoal lines. He didn't touch the brushes, but his fingers traced the wooden edge of the frame. "Do you want me to move it closer to the chair?"

Then, Artemis appeared right behind Ares and the goddess gasped as Ares knelt clutching her chest, until the next second she could see the god of war vomiting blood. The gleaming golden scepter in Morgan's hand caught Artemis' attention as it arrived on the battlefield. Even with Ares who never left his sight. The goddess trembled, Morgan who had always been an invisible god and did not want to be seen by anyone stood not far from Ares who looked like he was dying. She stood straight with her blue hair blowing in the wind, Artemis felt the wind so strange that it pricked her skin. Just ahead, Artemis could see Morgan's stature, which was more gallant and noble than any god. His straight eyeb

Gavin stared off into the dark horizon watching the stars. Morgan stared at the door and couldn't take laying there anymore. She slowly got out of bed and began looking around at the cabin. She wandered over to his desk . The map he had been studying was rolled out. It was only half a map. He had a piece of paper connected to it with drawings. He must have drawn the missing sections from memory. She looked over both of them. He had notes and dates of where he wanted to be by when. He was three days behind. He wanted to be by what was marked Blind Man's Passage. She settled in his chair sitting and gazed over the map.